Tom Walema's Holotapes
by Koobie
Summary: TOM WALEMA in a new AUDIO ADVENTURE. Be RIGHT, be LIGHT, be ENTREPRENEUR EXTRAORDINAIRE!


This story makes references to the Fallout franchise, the copyright of which is held by Bethesda Softworks. All trademarks and registered trademarks present in the story are proprietary to Bethesda Softworks. The use of such references is believed to qualify as **fair use** under United States copyright law as such use does not significantly impede the right of the copyright holder to sell the copyrighted material and is not being used to generate profit in this context.

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Don't forget to copy and paste the mp3 URL into your browser address field (and then delete all the blank spaces from the link) if you want to listen to the story in audio.

All and any comments more than appreciated. Let me know what you think!

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Walema's Holotape #1

"**Some Unfinished Business"**

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HOLOTAPE ACQUISITION DETAILS:

www . intuitive-ds . com / personal / holotape1 . mp3

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// HOLOTAPE START //

I was doing close to a hundred and twenty on the highway. The wide crack across the speedometer made it hard to tell for sure.

Interstate 80, it said on the rusted road sign as I flew past.

The power meter on my dashboard started to dwindle. I slammed my fist against it - usually, that did the trick. But not this time, it seemed. Truth be told, I had only the vaguest recollection of when I last stopped for a recharge - I was too busy being on the run.

The Highwayman jumped, but then gave up the fight and shifted into first gear. I stopped the car in the middle of the burnt-out road, noting the distinct lack of deformed lampposts or bloodied tread marks.

I was starting to get pretty good at this.

The driver's door decided it liked me well enough to open without falling off, and I stepped out and into the dust. The Highwayman's trunk, once filled to the brim with energy cells, now had only one cell brick lying in the corner.

It took me less than a minute to charge up the engine and I was on the move again, with 50% power and one more worry added to the top my list.

Melting noon sunrays soon turned into afternoon shade, only to turn into the orange-yellow palette of a Post-Nuclear dusk.

Electric lights flickered on the horizon. Whatever that place was, it seemed like a big enough city. I passed a couple of blocks when I got to it, then took a turn to what seemed like a more civilized part of town. Or, at least, it seemed like a part of town that had more people in it at any particular point in time other than me.

I parked next to a building with a sign that looked like it meant to say something welcoming atop the entrance, but missed half the necessary letters.

Suitcase in hand, I walked out onto the scarcely illuminated pavement. A man sat crouched by a burning tar barrel and my well-trained eye immediately identified him as a junkie. I guess I didn't make it as far from home as I'd hoped to.

A wise man always scouts the situation ahead, and they didn't call me a wise guy for nothing. I approached the man, careful not to startle him, and took out a Jet injector from my pocket.

Jet - the liquid orgasm multiplied by the power of God. Or so the saying went.

"Hey, you from around here?" I asked.

The junkie turned around. His face was covered in ash, a pair of dilated pupils staring into a world beyond. He looked through me and then fixed his gaze on the injector.

"Yeah…"

His voice reminded me of a drugged monkey I'd seen on screen back in the Golden Globe once, the sort of thing the owners ran when they got bored of the 24/7 porn and switched to one of their less popular tapes for a change.

"Well," I threw the injector up in the air and let it land back square into my palm, "You plan on telling me where the hell I am, or we're just gonna stay here all day?"

"You're in Lincoln, man. Lincoln City, ever hear of it?"

"And you reckon a guy like me could buy a couple energy cells in a town like this?"

"I reckon that in a town like this, eh… In a town like this a fella can buy anything he damn wants, that's what a fella can buy." He never moved his eyes from the Jet.

"I even reckon," he added, "That I can point you in the right direction."

I let the injector roll between my fingers.

"I'm listening."

"Well, you're where you wanna be, man. You see that theatre behind you? That's Lincoln Theatre. Guy called Rasta holds shop there, should have whatever it is that you're looking for."

"Right." I threw him the Jet and headed for the entrance.

Lincoln Theatre's double doors gave way to a wide hall with a safety cage installed on the far end. A dark skinned man with dreads falling down his shoulders minded the counter on the other side of the bars.

"You Rasta?"

"No, I'm Moby Fuckin' Dick. Jesus Fuckin' C."

"Well listen up, Rasta. Word on the street is you're just the man I gotta see."

"Word on the street, huh? Well, hell, if you got the caps, I got the goods."

Rasta stocked good, if not particularly organized. The insides of his safety cage were filled with piles of weapons, ammo, armor pieces, leftover motor vehicle bits, you name it - he had it. I asked him to count out three fully charged cells, something to keep me on the road 'till my next pit stop.

In addition to the cells I asked him to throw in a six-shooter and some ammo. I was never a good a shot, but nothing boosted confidence like a fully loaded revolver.

"That'll be four hundred caps, ya crazy stray."

I reached into my suitcase and handed him a handful of dollars through the safety's cage counter window.

"The fuck is this?" he said, looking me in the eye.

_He said 'caps_,_'_ I thought. _Goddamned bottle caps._

"You never seen money before?"

"Not like from where ya come from, ya fuckhead," he said, taking the revolver from the counter and throwing it back into the weapons pile, "It's four hundred caps or get-the-fuck-outta-my-face."

I had a suitcase full of money and was more broke than a cattle herder after Radscorpion season. So I did what anyone'd do if they were me.

"Hey," I said, "What's the closest bar around here?"

The closest bar turned out to be a joint called The Hollow Moose, a bar just down the street. My plan was simple – get some caps, get the cells, get the hell out of here. Obviously, that was easier said than done. I threw my useless suitcase into the Highwayman's trunk, and made for the bar. As I approached the door to Rasta's recreational establishment of choice, a gunshot rang out. A man stumbled out the door and fell to the ground. I stepped over his body and went inside.

This Lincoln City place felt too much like home for comfort.

Like any bar worth its salt, The Hollow Moose smelled of alcohol, vomit, and gunpowder all rolled into one. The place was packed, men drinking and shouting, sometimes taking a break to fire off a couple of rounds into the ceiling. The barman was a big bald guy, a golden bull ring stuck through his nose.

To his credit, the barkeep didn't mind the gambling table across the room. I grabbed someone's misplaced beer and slowly made my way through the crowd. Four men were playing a card game I've never seen before, and – trust me on this one – card games I've seen a plenty. The one man who was obviously in the lead was somewhere in his early thirties, a holstered submachine gun swinging by his side. A very underdressed girl was sitting on his lap, hugging him and kissing him in the cheek every time he added more chips to his stack.

It took me five minutes to get down their game's basics, but, before I could even finish my beer, the man gave his girlfriend a reassuring squeeze and looked straight at me.

"Planning on making a bet?" he asked.

I couldn't suppress a smile. He was speaking my language.

"Sure. Just not a card bet. I'm a newcomer to this nice town here, the sorta guy who likes keeping things interesting, you know? So sure, I'll bet you this fine leather jacket," I tapped the black studded leather, "And with it, my Chryslus Motors Highwayman parked outside."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"So, the Highwayman and the jacket against two thousand caps. What do you think?"

"What's the bet?" asked the girl on his lap. "You know how much I'm into good rides, Max," she added, giving her boyfriend a wink.

"Bet's simple. I'm betting you I'm going to go all the way over there," I waved my hand at the bar stand, "to a barkeep I've never met before in my life – which I'm sure you all can attest to – and piss all over him and his bar, and he's not going to mind."

The other three men behind the table all turned to Max, waiting for his answer.

"Make that eight hundred caps, and you've got yourself a bet."

"A thousand two hundred."

"One thousand."

"Fine," I gave in, "But I'll need a two hundred caps loan for the job. Don't worry," I took a refreshing gulp from my beer bottle, "Your money's safe with me. It's way too crowded to run off, you've got a gun, and, hey, I'm in no habit of taking off with other people's money anyway, if you know what I mean."

"All right, Wastelander. You're on."

Two hundred caps in my pocket, I made it to the bar stand.

"Hey," I said to the bar keep, "What's your name?"

"Moose."

"Well, Moose, what's on menu?"

I got myself another beer and an iguana on a stick. Not the gentleman's choice, but I was hungry enough for it to taste like a godsend. By the time I ran out of iguana, I had another three beers in me.

"Hey, Moose," I said, discarding the stick, "You seem like a man who's seen everything there is to see in a bar."

"Is this the part you tell me you don't have any caps and I shoot you in the face?"

"No, man," I slid his caps over the table, "Not at all. The reason I'm saying, is, well, I bet there's one thing you never seen a man do in a bar before."

"And what would that be?"

"Well, you see, Moose, I've got what some'd call a special talent. Do me a favor and put an empty glass here," I said and tapped the bar stand.

Moose reached out for an empty glass and placed in front of me.

"Thing is, I can take a piss right from where I'm standing into this here glass, and I bet you that every single drop will land straight into the glass."

"Yeah, right…"

"I bet you fifty caps for it. Hell, make it a hundred!"

He looked like he was deep in thought.

"You're right, that I haven't seen before. But remember – one drop off, and it's a hundred caps you owe me."

"I'm a man of my word," I said, unzipping my pants.

I missed.

"Ya fucking wanker," he said, laughing.

I zipped my pants and counted out a hundred caps to the good man.

"Hell, guess it doesn't work every time."

Beer in hand, I made it back to Max to collect the eight hundred caps that he owed me.

It was high time for me to visit Rasta's, but when I got back to Lincoln Theatre, the doors were already locked. Having not much choice I decided to wait until he opened up in the morning. I contemplated staying in The Hollow Moose, but leaving my car in the middle of the street didn't seem like a very smart thing to do. So I climbed into my Highwayman, tucked my leather jacket under my head, and went to sleep.

The next morning started, quite literally, with a bang.

Someone was shooting inside the theatre. I threw my jacket on and ran inside. Two dead rats lay on the floor, and the air smelled strongly of gunpowder. Another rat was twitching in the middle of the room, but then – BANG! – another gunshot, and it exploded into a bloody mess.

Rasta stood by his safety cage, smoking revolver in hand.

"Morning," I said, "Taking care of a little rodent problem, I see."

"Hey, fuckface. You got my caps or what?"

"Sure do," I counted out four hundred caps, "And I still want that piece."

"All yours," he said, handing over his revolver. He went back into the cage and placed my energy cells on the counter. "Fully charged," he added, "Rasta's guarantee."

There was some noise outside, as of a motor vehicle pulling by. I turned my head to the side – the noise was definitely coming from an engine. And it wasn't the Highwayman's. I let the thought sink in.

Three men came through the doors, automatic weapons in hands. Each of them wore metal armor, sharpened spikes shooting out of their shoulder pads. I recognized one of them, his already imposing-enough armor decorated with tribal feathers. A long ripped scar ran across the man's face.

"Tom Walema?" asked the man.

His name was Rurik, and he was the Family's most feared enforcer. Him, and men like him, were the reason people knew better than to fuck with the mafia.

"Drop the gun, Tom," he said.

I was in no position to argue. I held out my new revolver, opened the cylinder, and let the three empty cartridges fall to the floor. I palmed the three unspent bullets – years worth of card practice don't just go away – and threw the weapon across the room.

"Now," he went on, "Where's our money?"

"Let's all just stay calm..."

"I don't look calm enough to you? Now, you can either tell me where the money is right this very moment, or you can start saying goodbye to your balls."

Rurik aimed his assault rifle at my groin. Getting my balls shot off hadn't been a prospect that I cared much to look forward to. Thing is, I grew rather attached to them.

"I've got the boss's money, Rurik, just not with me. I hid it. No, no, no, don't shoot me, alright? Stay cool, everybody just stay cool, alright? They're in the bar a down the street. Hollow Moose's the name."

"Lead the way," said Rurik.

Out in the morning sunlight, I saw a pre-war Hummer parked next to my Highwayman. Another mercenary stood by the car, a cigarette between his lips. Rurik gave him a nod.

Not sure what I had been hoping for. Probably it was just human nature, the try not to die as long as you can sort of thing. Rurik didn't even have to bother lying to me that he'd let me go, and I knew that as well as he did.

The Hollow Moose hadn't been nearly as popular in the morning as it had been during the night. Moose was wiping his bar stand with an old piece of cloth. A couple of patrons lay on the floor. Max still slept on the gambling table, right on top of an empty booze bottle pile.

"He's got the suitcase," I said, nodding at Max, "No need for violence, alright? Let me just go get it."

I walked up to Max and tapped him on the shoulder. Nothing happened. I kicked his foot. He moved, then opened his eyes, and took out a beer bottle from under the table. He downed the bottle.

"Huh, the fuck? Oh, it's you, Wastelander. What do you want?"

I leaned to his ear and whispered, "These three guys behind me? Well, how to put it, well… They're slavers. And they got your girl. I'm sorry, man. I got told to come find you in case you want her back."

Max's face was blank for a moment. He then reached for another bottle, opened it with his teeth, and drank half of it in one gulp.

"I've had enough of your shit, Tommy," said Rurik, coming closer to the table, "Now, be a nice boy and just hand over the money already."

"So, it's money you're after, huh?" Max said, "Well, how about a piece of this instead you fucking motherfuckers?"

He grabbed Rurik's rifle barrel, pointed it away from himself, and smashed the beer bottle over the enforcer's head. The bottle exploded into shards of glass, and Max, his submachine gun already in hand, opened fire.

I dropped to the ground, gunshots ringing in my ears. Max jumped for cover, and so did the mercs. Rurik was hit, but that didn't stop him from returning fire. Bullets tore into everything around us, covering the bar in a cloud of splinters and smoke. I was crawling across the floor towards the exit when I saw the fourth merc run through the door. Moose stood up from behind the bar, a sawed-off shotgun in hand, and blew the merc's knee off in a thunderous shot from both barrels at once. Now completely deaf, I finally reached the door and half-rolled, half-jumped onto the pavement.

First I ran for the Highwayman on the power on pure instinct, but then thought better of it. I opened the trunk, grabbed my suitcase and a pair of pliers, and then quickly ran to the front of the car. It took me a few seconds to pry open the bullet cartridges I got from Rasta's revolver, and then a few seconds more to pour the gunpowder onto the fission battery under the Highwayman's hood. I shut the lid and jumped into Rurik's Hummer.

I floored the pedal and the engine roared into action. As I sped off, I saw Rurik in the rearview mirror. He was limping for my Highwayman.

Two blocks later, an eardrum-shattering explosion confirmed that Rurik was no more. When I was good, it felt good. But when I was bad, it felt even better.

Driving the Hummer back onto Interstate 80, I couldn't help but let out a sigh. Here was to hoping that Rurik's crew stacked up on energy cells.

// HOLOTAPE END //


End file.
